


Test

by darkwinggirl



Category: Power Rangers, Power Rangers R.P.M.
Genre: Complete, Diggy, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 05:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16235219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkwinggirl/pseuds/darkwinggirl
Summary: God, if they cut Dillon in this fight, will he even bleed? Or will the skin Ziggy’s spent so many hours mapping part to reveal only wires and tubes? How far have the artificial tumors spread? How much of Dillon’s bone and muscle and heart have they eaten? ***Sequel to "Trust"***





	Test

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my last story, "Trust". I think it can be enjoyed on its own, but "Trust" lays the groundwork for this version of the Dillon/Ziggy relationship, so I'd read it first if you have the time.

Though Ziggy has always known about the lollipops, it takes several rounds of lovemaking for him to appreciate the true extent of Dillon’s oral fixation.

Ziggy could never have dreamed up the things Dillon does with his mouth. It wouldn’t occur to him to kiss someone else’s knees, bite the insides of thighs, suck toes, taste every inch of skin with the desperate thoroughness of a man dying of thirst. Dillon at times seems to be trying to swallow Ziggy whole. His kisses are deep and possessive. His blowjobs are obscenely enthusiastic. He sticks his tongue in Ziggy’s ears, chews his butt cheeks, clamps onto his neck like a vampire.

Ziggy’s a mass of hickeys. He looks as if he’s joined a fight club.

He likes it. It’s all still new and nerve-wracking, of course; he’s never had even a girlfriend to hold hands with, so to suddenly have a hulking, passionate _boyfriend_ \- a term that sticks oddly in his head, partially because he’d never considered having one before and partially because it’s a terrible label for Dillon, who is neither boyish nor friendly - requires an adjustment, to say the least. But being worshipped every night, kissed and stimulated and assured of being wanted, needed, by Dillon, _Dillon,_ of all beautiful, perfect people…

Well, Ziggy’s always had an ego, and boy, does it enjoy being fed.

Ziggy worries about not being as brave or demonstrative as Dillon. He prefers using his hands to his mouth - perhaps because his mouth is usually running, babbling out his anxieties. His favorite way to show affection is to give Dillon back massages, and to be the big spoon while he sleeps and Dillon lies frowning at the wall.

It’s been two weeks, and Ziggy still hasn’t gotten up the courage to attempt what he thinks of as _actual_ sex. It wasn’t until their third go-round that he’d even managed to suck Dillon’s cock.

He’d enjoyed doing it, it turned out, although he’s sure he wouldn’t enjoy it with anyone _but_ Dillon. And he hasn’t yet been able to swallow.

He’s inexperienced and anxious and barely eighteen, and he’s knows he’s not gay. If he’s bisexual, he certainly hasn’t always been. It’s all about Dillon. Dillon is so fucking extraordinary that he can attract anyone. It’ll take time before Ziggy’s able to get around his mental blocks in the anatomy department and his disbelief about what can actually be pleasurable. Probably he’ll be ready for real sex soon. Probably.

Dillon swears he understands. Says he doesn’t mind, and appears to mean it. After their first sexual encounter, in which he came on so strong Ziggy was left rattled and skittish, he’s been careful about consent. He says if they never go any further than they already have, that’s fine. It’s more than enough.

He hasn’t said a word about love or anything adjacent to it. His cold, prickly personality hasn’t really changed. In fact, his favorite things to say to Ziggy are “Shut up” and colorful variations on that theme. Still, there’s no doubt: Dillon _adores_ Ziggy.

Mostly, he keeps his hands to himself when they’re working. Once in a while during a briefing, he’ll sling an arm across Ziggy’s shoulder or stand close enough to brush against him, nothing big enough for anyone to comment on. In battle, there’s no significant change. Yes, he stays near Ziggy, but that’s standard; their weapons work together, their Zords work together… they’ve always been partners. Always had each others’ backs.

But, oh, god, when they’re alone.

Apparently, Dillon has wanted to make a move on Ziggy since they met, months ago. He’s been holding back because of his (correct) impression that Ziggy hadn’t viewed their relationship as anything but brotherly, and he patiently - or perhaps not so much - let their bond grow.

Now that the dam has burst, he’s making up for those lost months.

It’s not all sexual. As long as he’s at least touching Ziggy, he seems content. He’ll let Ziggy monologue for minutes at a time with Ziggy’s feet propped up on his lap. He likes to have Ziggy curl up against his back, or sit nestled at his side with Dillon’s lips resting on his hair. If it’s a quiet night in the garage with the team, he’ll just attach his hand to the small of Ziggy’s back and keep it there, flinty eyes daring someone to make a comment.

In “their” bedroom - formerly Ziggy’s room - he wordlessly kisses Ziggy on any and all exposed body parts whenever Ziggy comes near him.

They shower together. It’s wonderful. The best part of Ziggy’s day. Dillon does all the cleaning work for both of them, putting on a grim face and pretending not to enjoy himself while Ziggy talks and talks and talks.

Dillon continues to defend Ziggy as well. Neither Scott nor Dr. K can get three words into a berating session without Dillon making some wry comment that wrecks their momentum. If Ziggy ends up with a small injury - which is happening less and less often as he grows used to the Ranger suits and the Grinders’ fighting style - Dillon examines it himself, at length, and usually insists Ziggy get some sort of bandage that isn’t really necessary.

Ziggy continues to wonder why him, of all people. Scott and Flynn would be better matches for Dillon, and whether they know it or not, he could probably have them if he wanted them. Ziggy’s toothpick limbs, his continual failures in battle, his checkered and troublesome past, his incessant word vomit, his sexual neuroses - none of it seems right for Dillon.

He wonders sometimes if the attachment simply comes from him being Dillon’s “first” person - the first human he’d seen out in the wastes after wandering in total isolation and confusion for who-knew-how-long. Maybe Dillon saw Ziggy’s face and just imprinted like a baby duck.

Ziggy is a little paranoid about the fact that he got the better end of that deal.

The team handles the relationship well. Flynn, in particular, is delighted for them. He’s a sweetheart who thrives on the happiness of others, and somehow he manages to give himself credit for getting them together.

Once Scott gets through a short phase of bewilderment and face-pulling, he ends up more relaxed around Dillon, perhaps because he knows they’re no longer competing in at least one important department.

Dr. K rolls her eyes and gets on with business.

Summer… is cold at first. Ziggy can certainly understand. Until the moment Dillon kissed him, he’d written Summer off as claimed by Dillon. Looking back, he can’t think why. The signs all pointed his way. He’d been trusting expectations, not evidence.

But Summer’s a big girl with a good character, and it’s not like there’s anything she can do. Ziggy isn’t the problem. Dillon, for sure, _is_ gay; he casually confirms it, like it’s obvious, with Summer in the room, when Scott and Flynn curiously probe a little into his relationship with Ziggy. After a few days of terse exchanges and hard stares - nothing overtly catty, of course - Summer appears to digest her disappointment, and then she’s back to normal: friendly, cheerful, devoted to the cause.

So it’s fine. Everything’s fine. Ziggy has friends, a purpose, a lover. A real place in the world for the first time. If Dillon still has periods of brooding and self-loathing regarding his past and future, they’re at least less frequent and shorter-lived than before. The Rangers continue to beat back everything Venjix throws at them.

They’re heroes.

K’s plan is working.

Their happiness lasts two weeks.

And then one day, one not particularly special morning, when they’re all drinking Flynn’s smoothies and chatting without bickering for once, Dillon rises and wanders off without a word. Ziggy’s so busy explaining to Flynn the merits and evolutionary wisdom of peeling bananas from the bottom, instead of from the top, that he barely notices.

They all notice when the alarms go off.

They find Dillon in Dr. K’s control room, pulling wires. K, childlike in her pajamas and slippers, is on the floor. Dillon turns to face them; his eyes are lit from within.

Red.

The irises are transparent, and what Ziggy sees behind them sickens him.

Gears. Circuits. Metal.

“Dillon, what are you _doing?_ ” cries Scott, like an idiot. Like they all can’t see what’s happening.

Ziggy has known this was coming. Of course he has. He’s dreaded it. It kept him awake more than once even before he and Dillon became more than friends. But he thought they had months, at least. This can’t be it. He’s not ready, not at all.

And somehow, in spite of Dillon’s regular displays of incredible strength and agility, the reality of him not being fully human has never registered with Ziggy. He _looks_ so very human. His skin is soft, his tongue is wet, his hair grows. His personality can’t have come from any computer.

But now, as he stalks towards them with ant-like single-mindedness, Ziggy can hear small zipping noises coming from his joints. The noises the Grinders make.

God, if they cut Dillon in this fight, will he even bleed? Or will the skin Ziggy’s spent so many hours mapping part to reveal only wires and tubes? How far have the artificial tumors spread? How much of Dillon’s bone and muscle and heart have they eaten?

Is he dead?

Has he _been_ dead? How would any of them know?

Ziggy briefly shuts down. The energy drains from his limbs. It’s all he can do to crouch beside K, cradle her battered head, and watch numbly as Summer, Scott, and Flynn try to take Dillon on.

Summer is the first to receive a real hit, and it’s bad. Dillon backhands her into a wall. The motion is casual, like he’s swatting a fly he’s not too invested in killing, but the double impacts - on Summer’s chest and then on the wall - are so loud, K stirs in Ziggy’s arms. Summer slides down, eyes wide and blank, gasping. Out of the fight.

Scott and Flynn, working together, fare better. They’re able to slow Dillon down, to dodge his killing blows. But they tire quickly. Dillon blocks their attacks, and soon, they’re down too, Flynn clutching his stomach and Scott cringing over his right kneecap, where Dillon landed a cruel, sharp kick.

Dillon turns back to the control panels.

Fuck.

It’s Ziggy’s turn.

“Slow him down, Ranger Green,” says K, stumbling to her feet. She shoves what appears to be a small cannon into his hands, then runs to her keyboard. “I can disable his programming. I need sixty seconds. Go.”

He hears himself babbling. “Sixty seconds? No problem! No problemo. I mean, sure, he’s basically a human-shaped garbage compactor and I have literally never landed a hit on him in practice, ever, but hey, Dillon and me, we’ve got a bond, right?”

“Damn it, Ziggy!” cries Scott. “Shoot him!”

Ziggy turns and finds Dillon an inch away; the larger man effortlessly pulls the gun out of Ziggy’s hands, and turns it on Scott. 

Ziggy flings himself in the way.

Dillon stares.

Hesitates? Twitches.

_Yes. He’s still in there._

Ziggy flies at him, wraps his arms around him, whispers into his chest: “Hey, Dillon. It’s me. It’s Ziggy. Grover. You know. We’ve met. Once or twice. You’re not going to hurt me, right? You’re fighting it, right? Just a few more seconds, buddy. Hold on, okay? Just - ”

Dillon twitches once more.

He proceeds to break first Ziggy’s grip, then his face. Three blows in succession; Ziggy doesn’t even see them land, they come at him so fast.

Ziggy collapses, blood exploding from his nose, one cheek already swelling as if full of snake venom. His vision wobbles insanely, then cuts out on the left side.

Dillon’s eyes glow as he trains the gun on each Ranger in turn, as if unable to decide which to take out first.

At last, he levels it on Summer.

Scott, bellowing, tackles him at the last second. He tries to get Dillon in a headlock, but Dillon’s joints continue making those horrifying metal-on-metal noises as he easily frees himself. Scott just manages to cling onto his back and keep him off balance.

Then Dillon cries out. He collapses, clutching his head and moaning, and Scott rolls free.

“Well done, Series Red,” says K. “It appears thirty seconds was all I needed to enter the base code. Though if I had, in fact, needed the full minute, we would all be dead, so next time, Series Green, please follow directions more assiduously.”

“What, you expected me to just blow his head off?” Ziggy asks.

K is unimpressed. “In his high-powered state, it’s possible he would have survived the blast. But yes. I expect you to put the survival of the team and the city above any emotional attachments.”

“Wait. Doctor. Base code?” asks Flynn, attempting to rise.

They’re all rising. They’ll all live. Thank god. If Dillon had killed even one of them...

Well, whatever Dr. K is talking about, it worked.

Dillon comes out of his trance in a few seconds, looking around first in confusion, then alarm. He searches the room, observes the recovering Rangers, the damage to Ziggy’s face, the destroyed computers, the gun, his own bloody fist. It’s Ziggy’s blood. He sets down the gun.

Ziggy rather hopes he’ll come straight in for a hug. Instead, his (brown, not red) eyes drop, and he says quietly to no one in particular, “Before you tell me what happened, you’d better restrain me.”

K straps Dillon to a table.

The following hours are tough for Ziggy.

There’s the pain, obviously, and the fact that he can’t see out of his left eye. But he’s been beaten up before. It’s rarely dampened his spirits. He could deal with his broken face if it weren’t for the quickly compounding emotional turmoil.

Dillon won’t look at Ziggy. He won’t look at any of them except Dr. K, and that’s only so he can get answers to a few grim questions: How bad is it, what set it off, when will it happen again, is there any way to slow it down. K says she needs time. He asks how she managed to stop him. She won’t answer.

She begins to scan him, and his X-rays show up on a monitor over his head. Horrifying. K says the hardware growth isn’t significant compared to last week, but to Ziggy, it looks like Dillon’s all machine in there. There must be fifty metal, moving parts in his right arm alone. They’re nested in the muscles, wrapped around the bones, jammed into the joints: a colony of invaders cutting away at his friend.

It’s only a few minutes before a medivan arrives and K shoos the team out for treatment, but they’re a long few minutes to deal with Dillon clenching his jaw and acknowledging only Dr. K or his own shoes. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t respond to Ziggy’s questions, Summer’s reassurances, Flynn’s nervous jokes. Scott is silent; Ziggy knows he’s in a tough position, and will have to make some hard decisions in the next few hours.

The examination and treatment seems to take forever. It turns out Ziggy is in the worst shape of all of them. He’s the only one with actual broken bones - cheek, left orbital, and nose. Also, his retina has detached. The others escape with only serious bruising and, for Scott, a brace to hold his popped kneecap in place for a few weeks.

Ziggy thinks this is actually a good sign. Dillon must have been holding back. Sure, he broke Ziggy’s face, but he could just as easily have punched his head off, and Ziggy hadn’t been trying to defend himself like the others had.

The mediteam stop the bleeding, nudge everything possible back in place, stick two small plastic molds to Ziggy’s face, and apply an icy gel that reduces the swelling. He’s given a bottle of pain pills and forced to make an appointment at the hospital two days from now - surgery will be necessary to properly reset the retina and the bones, but it will have to wait until his flesh is no longer inflamed - and once Ziggy finally makes it back to K’s lab, he finds Dillon sitting up, free but for some reason looking even grimmer than before. He’s glaring at K. So are Scott, Summer, and Flynn.

Ziggy is the last of the team to be treated to the revelation regarding Dr. K’s role in creating the Venjix virus.

Apparently her knowledge of it was what allowed her to block the virus’ control over Dillon, and then to locate and remove the flash drive implanted behind his ear, probably by Tenaya 7 in their last battle. It enhanced Venjix’s connection to Dillon. K thinks he’s safe to let free now that it’s been removed.

The knowledge that the tiny doctor, who Ziggy has truly come to love, is the one responsible for the deaths of six billion people, including Ziggy’s parents, is overwhelming. Shocking, saddening, infuriating, fascinating.

And it comes at a time when Ziggy does not fucking want to hear about anything other than Dillon.

Here they sit, forced to blink and gasp at K’s tragic narrative, ask her questions, marvel at the unfairness of it all, decide whether or not they blame her, whether they can trust her, what this will mean for the team’s future…

And Dillon is _right there,_ frightened, guilt-ridden, traumatized, and being gnawed away from the inside out _right in front of them._ Not that he’s saying that, but can’t they see? Can’t they see that he won’t make eye contact? That his hands are balled in fists, that the scraped skin of his knuckles reveals inhuman chrome instead of bone-white? That he’s breathing hard when they all know he’s not tired? They should be talking about _him._ Why couldn’t K have waited?

When will they be allowed to leave?

At least an hour, it turns out. Even then, there’s no real relief, because Scott dismisses them by saying he wants to talk to K and Dillon alone.

Everyone’s exhausted; nobody argues. Ziggy slinks miserably towards the door, trying to make a quiet scene, trying to get Dillon to throw him a look, anything, a _we’ll talk later_ look or an _are you okay to walk out of here with those injuries_ look or even a brief glance to verify he cares that Ziggy’s alive.

Nothing. Dillon’s jaw is set, and he doesn’t move as he’s left with the team leaders - no doubt to discuss the wisdom of keeping him on as a Ranger.

Ziggy camps out in the Fury. If Dillon’s going to attempt to run again, and he probably will, Ziggy’s going with him. Summer and Flynn sit at the garage counter for a while, speaking in low voices, then begin to retreat to their rooms.

Summer stops and comes over to the driver’s side window. She taps, so Ziggy rolls it down.

“I’m sorry, Ziggy,” says Summer. She places a gentle hand on her shoulder. “But he’s fine now. He’ll be okay.”

“Yeah. I know. Thanks. Not that I was ever worried. He’s always fine.”

“Yes,” said Summer. Her face is lit up with empathy. She’s beautiful. “He’s strong. He’ll get through this, and so will you. Okay?”

She leans in and gently kisses his good cheek, then disappears.

Scott enters perhaps half an hour later, raids the fridge, then notices Ziggy.

“It’s okay,” he calls. “We’ve got a plan, kind of. K thinks we can slow the acceleration of Dillon’s virus if we can get some code from yesterday’s attack bot. We’re going to try to lure it back tomorrow. There’ll be a mission briefing later.”

Ziggy nods. He heard mostly bad news in that little speech. Best case scenario, they can _slow the acceleration_ of the virus. That’s miles from what he needs to hear.

“Ziggy.”

“Yes, fearless leader?”

“Dillon’s not going anywhere tonight. I took care of it. So my advice, get out of that car and clean yourself up before you talk to him. You look like Freddy Krueger and your shirt’s covered in blood. Can’t be good for him to see you like that.”

Scott leaves.

Ziggy looks at himself in the rearview. Yikes. Scott couldn’t be more right.

He drags himself to his bedroom. Dillon’s not in there, but there are signs he stopped by. Some of Dillon’s clothes that had been carelessly flung on a chair last night are now gone. Ziggy tries not to overthink that.

He has to cut his shirt off to keep from hurting himself pulling it over his head, and then getting the blood off his neck and out of his hair is another ordeal. The sink ends up stained red and two washcloths are ruined.

Damn it, he’s going to need to go shopping tomorrow. He only has one button-up.

What can he do about the face? Even with the nose brace and the reduced swelling, he looks like the Phantom of the fucking Opera. The eye is particularly gruesome: dark and spongy and wet. He’s got to cover it up - not like he can see out of it anyway.

Oh!

Excited, Ziggy digs through the costume box he’s been using for his magic shows and pulls out an eyepatch. It sits in place without causing him too much discomfort, and Ziggy instantly feels both cooler and smarter. One problem solved.

As for the rest of his face, it’s going to be this way for a while, so Dillon will have to deal.

It feels ridiculous to find Dillon in his room: the one place he can be counted on to never be found when you want him. But that’s where he is.

He’s on the ground in a corner, knees up, playing with his pocketwatch. Its familiar tune tinkles around them twice, three times, before Dillon mutters, “Something you wanted to say, Zig?”

Better than “Go away, Zig,” which is what Ziggy was expecting. He takes it as permission to make himself a nuisance.

He walks over, straddles Dillon, sits on his lap facing him, and rests his face - the uninjured side - on Dillon’s shoulder. They sit there in the corner like an odd spider, their knees up near their ears, and Dillon continues to make the watch play behind Ziggy’s back.

“You know we’re going to figure it all out, right?” says Ziggy after a while. “The watch, your real name, where you come from… And we’re going to stop the virus too. K can do it. She’s a genius.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“In a way, this whole her-creating-Venjix thing is good news. She’s specially equipped to stop it, you know?”

“Ziggy.”

“Yes?”

“How bad does it hurt?”

“What, this?” Ziggy pulls back to indicate his face. Finally, _finally,_ Dillon looks at him. He’s being careful, Ziggy can tell, not to reveal too much emotion as he analyzes the damage. “Doesn’t hurt unless I poke it. They gave me the good stuff. And it’s all fixable. Even the eye. Just a few days, I’ll be good as new. Which, honestly, well done!”

“Well done?”

“Fighting Venjix’s control! Resisting! Only hurting us, not killing us! I saw you hesitate before you hit me. Commendable. I was impressed - knew you could do it.”

“Ziggy.” Dillon’s mouth goes flat, and his eyes are shadowed. “I didn’t resist.”

“Sure you did! We’d be dead if you hadn’t. You could have, I don’t know, pulled our hearts out or whatever, and instead you just yanked a few wires. You telling me that’s all Venjix ordered you to do?”

“I wouldn’t know,” says Dillon. “I don’t remember anything. Sure didn’t put up a fight. It was a time skip for me. One second sitting at the smoothie bar, the next second, waking up with your blood on my hands. Just...switched off and on. Like a fucking lamp.”

Ziggy can’t quite believe this, but he’s not going to argue right now. Dillon carefully pulls him back in and wraps his arms around Ziggy’s back. He puts his mouth on Ziggy’s shoulder, partially muffling himself when he adds, “What if I’d woken up and you were dead? And I’d killed you?”

“First of all,” Ziggy starts. “It wouldn’t have been you, really.”

“You don’t know a goddamned thing about it.”

“...Ah.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay?”

“I mean,” says Dillon. He rests his chin on Ziggy’s head. “How do you even know I’m me _now?_ Or that I’ve been _me_ this whole time? You couldn’t tell when Tenaya 7 was acting. None of us could. What if I’ve just got you fooled? Or tomorrow my programming kicks in and it’s...it’s someone else...here with you?”

He doesn’t say what he really means, but Ziggy gets it. Someone else in your bed. Someone else, someone evil, kissing you, stroking your hair, holding you and touching you when and where you’re most vulnerable. The thought has haunted him, too.

“Seems like kind of a complicated plan. You’re so strong, why pretend to be our friend? You could just snap all our necks and pull a plug and let Venjix in! Five minutes, tops!”

“Comforting, Ziggy. Thanks.”

“Look, Dillon, I know I’m not the brightest knife in the drawer, but I’m pretty sure I could tell if you turned evil. We could all tell today, right away.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

And Dillon’s hand slides up Ziggy’s back. It ends up around his neck.

Dillon pushes him, squeezing his windpipe with quiet, irresistible strength. He stares into Ziggy’s good eye.

“You sure you trust me?”

Ziggy can still breathe - just barely, but he can. He knows what Dillon’s trying to prove, so he does his absolute best to not panic. His arms want to flutter and grab at Dillon’s wrist; he wants to twist away; his pulse is jackhammering. But for once in his life, he does something right. He stays as still as he can and gives a little nod.

“That eyepatch looks ridiculous.” Dillon releases him. “You’re gonna fucking get yourself killed,” he adds. “And it’ll be my fault for letting you.”

“Technically, we are now free to blame absolutely everything on Dr. K. Why don’t I get you a sucker, huh? We could both use some dessert. Maybe dinner too.”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

Dillon examines him, apparently decides his chin is safe enough to touch, and kisses him there before saying, “Eat. Dinner. Have you noticed I haven’t really been eating?”

“That’s not true! You eat all the time! You cleaned out my candy stash!”

Dillon lets his mouth twist guiltily and admits, “Yeah, candy. Sweets. Smoothies sometimes. Sugar’s all I can taste anymore. Real food tastes like sand. And I don’t need it. I haven’t been hungry in days. Soon I won’t even be able to get the candy down.”

Ziggy grabs him and holds him tight. Rocks in his arms as well as he can, no longer sure who’s comforting whom.

“I couldn’t remember what the last thing I said to you was,” Ziggy whispers.

“What?”

“When I saw you in there, pulling out the wires, I thought you were dead, and I tried to think back to us talking in the morning, and I couldn’t think what my last words to you were. Maybe something about bananas. Something stupid. I’m glad that wasn’t it.”

“Kid, your last words to me are going to be something stupid. Most of what you say is stupid.”

“That’s hurtful.”

Ziggy’s been rocking a while now, and Dillon is hard beneath him.

“Maybe,” he whispers in Dillon’s ear. “Tonight we could try… you know… more. I mean, it’s been a crazy day, right? Why not end on something fun?”

“Now that,” says Dillon, “is exactly what I’m talking about.”

“What?”

“A really stupid thing to say.”

Ziggy pauses, trying to parse this.

Dillon sighs. “You’re not ready. You’re just pretending you’re ready because you think it’ll please me, and because you don’t know how much time we have left together. Am I right?”

“Well,” hedges Ziggy. “I’m no psychologist, and they say you shouldn’t psychoanalyze yourself anyway…”

“Shut up,” says Dillon. “And stand up. You’ve got blood behind your ears. I’m going to get you clean.”

Despite his order, he doesn’t allow Ziggy to stand. Instead, he lifts him and carries him to the bathroom, where he strips them both in seconds. Ziggy immediately feels better than he has all day. This is familiar territory: Dillon’s naked skin, no hardware painfully visible beneath it, and the warm spray of water around them both.

Then Dillon removes the eyepatch. Ziggy avoids watching him do this, not wanting to see the horror on his face, but can’t avoid hearing Dillon’s growled “God fucking damn it” at the sight of the damage. Dillon fists Ziggy’s hair, digs his fingers into his scalp in impotent fury, then lifts him into the shower.

Dillon’s careful with the water. He makes sure it’s not too hot this time, and he doesn’t let the harsh water pressure come near Ziggy’s injured face. As he works, kneading soap around Ziggy’s hair and torso, Ziggy stares down between them, holding their cocks together with both hands, stroking them. He has to stand on his tiptoes to get his cock even with Dillon’s. Once in a while he sways, almost losing his balance, but Dillon’s right there to hold him up.

Though Dillon tries to be all business, Ziggy knows he won’t be able to resist for long, and sure enough, Dillon’s hungry mouth is soon on his neck. He’s very gentle this time. No hickeys. Just contact, just tasting. He kisses all up and down Ziggy’s body, avoiding the hickeys, licking the jutting bones of Ziggy’s pelvis. He drinks some of the water that runs down the center line of Ziggy’s stomach. At last he rises and very, _very_ carefully, head tilted to avoid Ziggy’s broken nose, brushes his lips across Ziggy’s mouth.

“Dillon, please,” whispers Ziggy.

“Please what?”

“Show me you’re still alive. _We’re_ still alive. That we both survived this morning, and I’m not just dreaming.”

Again, Dillon kisses him, sliding his tongue across Ziggy’s, breathing into his mouth. Then he gracefully drops to his knees, letting the shower spray across Ziggy’s stomach.

Ziggy can never last long when Dillon blows him, and this is no exception. Dillon’s powerful, plunging mouth, hardworking tongue, and warm, tight throat all go to work, and it isn’t thirty seconds before Ziggy spasms and comes, gasping, trying not to tear out Dillon’s hair.

When Dillon stands, Ziggy giggles; Dillon’s _soaked,_ just gushing water from every strand and feature like a damn porch fountain.

“Shut up,” he says. “Quit moving your face.”

He tries to rinse Ziggy’s head, but it’s Ziggy’s turn to go to his knees. Above him, Dillon sighs.

“ _Careful,_ ” he says. “For god’s sake. Don’t hurt yourself over me.”

Even on a day when his face isn’t injured, Ziggy can’t deep throat. All he can take in his mouth is a few inches; his hands have to deal with the rest. One fist pumps and squeezes the rock-hard base of Dillon’s dick; the other cups and strokes his balls. Instead of powering forward and backward with his mouth, this time Ziggy uses his tongue and lips. Dillon involuntarily thrusts once, then, with a frustrated grunt, he braces his arms across the shower stall, trying to keep himself still.

It takes a while, going slow like this. Ziggy gets into a lazy rhythm. He works his tongue across every ridge, into every slight fold he can find, and he wraps his hands around Dillon’s ass cheeks, where he digs his fingers in to brace himself. It doesn’t seem possible that Dillon can be this long and hard; Ziggy fleetingly wonders if the hardware is turning his cock into a literal iron rod.

Suddenly, Dillon grabs Ziggy’s shoulders and lifts. They disconnect just as hot ropes of come spurt out of Dillon with ridiculous force, striping Ziggy’s face and neck. Dillon’s cock bobs between them, pulses out a few more spurts, then at last droops a little as they both watch.

Without speaking, Dillon cleans and rinses them both again. He turns off the water and pulls back the shower door, reaching for a towel.

But the cold air from the bedroom hits Ziggy, and it’s too much. Nausea sweeps over him. He collapses, and Dillon, slippery as he is, barely manages to catch him with a hissed “Jesus fuck.”

The walls seem to flip, and all Ziggy’s limbs have turned to spaghetti. He’s vaguely aware of being carried to the bed, and that Dillon’s struggling because Ziggy is drooping and lolling everywhere, like a lazy cat.

Though he knows he’s on the bed now, the world continues to spin. Dillon is pulling on his pants.

“‘S’ happening?” Ziggy slurs.

“What’s happening is you’ve got a head injury and you haven’t eaten anything all day, and now you’re exhausted. Stay there.”

Like Ziggy could do anything else. Needles of pain are poking out behind his left eye. He goes cold all over, then hot, then cold; he dry heaves once, but doesn’t have the strength for more.

Dillon brings him water and food (a deli sandwich clearly labeled “Flynn”), but after a struggle to get Ziggy to sit up, he digs through Ziggy’s pockets and finds the pain pills. He holds Ziggy’s head in place and forces him to swallow two of them. Water splashes down Ziggy’s chin, pooling in the hollow of his chest.

“Fuck,” Dillon breathes, and Ziggy can’t think why until he hiccups and realizes he’s crying. He can’t tell where his tears stop and the drinking water starts.

Dillon dries him off, wraps him warmly, and holds him close until the fit passes. Ziggy doesn’t know how long it takes. His sense of time is distorted. But at last the pain and nausea fade away, and he’s able breathe, then to get a few bites down.

“I’m really fine now,” he says as Dillon stonily watches him eat. “It was just a little...I don’t know what that was.”

“It was a side effect of getting the shit beat out of you.”

“Sounds scientific. Well, it’s over now. Thank Flynn for the sandwich, okay?”

“Yeah, no.”

Ziggy smiles.

Dillon is still himself. For now.

They try to work themselves into a comfortable position. Normally Ziggy sleeps behind and partially underneath Dillon, but that’s not going to work tonight. In the end, Dillon pulls Ziggy up over himself like a blanket, with Ziggy’s good right side resting against his chest.

“I want to keep an eye on you,” he says. “You’re not recovered yet. And you’re not going on the mission tomorrow.”

He pulls up the bedspread.

Though Ziggy’s warm and comfortable and dead tired, he finds he can’t quite sleep.

What if Dillon’s gone in the morning? What if he never comes back? What if these are their last few hours together, and the next time he sees Dillon, he’ll be that cold monster with glowing eyes, making Grinder noises as he rips the team apart?

Or - and this somehow seems the most likely - what if Dillon turns, but still looks and acts like himself, and Ziggy will be forced to fight a form of Venjix masked in the face and body and voice of his best friend?

Dillon runs his fingers up Ziggy’s back. “I know,” he says in the dark. “I’m scared too.”

“We’ll take care of you, big guy. This won’t happen again.”

“Yeah,” says Dillon.

But they both know he won’t sleep tonight. Not because he’s worried, but because the ticking machinery growing inside him, replacing him one cell at a time, doesn’t need to sleep.

***

Thank you for reading. Always review. XOXO - darkwinggirl


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